Byrd's School of English Fish
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The bridge crossing leading to headquarters was gone. In its place was a collection of stone blocks dividing the stream. Two crowds, one on either bank, gathered to stare into the water. A man was standing on the stones midstream trying to jump across. Through a part in the crowd Nelson saw someone he recognized on the opposite bank. The closest crossing was another quarter mile away, so Nelson shouted.
"Is Widdows still there?"
Several men in uniform turned to Nelson, then back to each other and shook their heads. The radioman who lit Widdows's last cigarette was sitting against the wall with his cigarette burnt down to the filter. He flipped the zippo open and closed without looking up from it. He sat a few paces from the puddle of blood where Widdows fell. He heard Nelson shouting from the bank. An officer shouted across the water.
"I'm afraid Widdows is no longer in command due to severe injuries sustained in the line of duty. I'm sorry. Marshall is assuming his duties until further notice. Please, it's best if you return tomorrow."
"Forgive me. Is there anything I can do to help? Do you need any assistance with the clean up?" He gestured to the rocks strewn over the yard in front of the headquarters building.
Nelson could tell by the crowd's response how severe Widdows's injuries were. The officer shouting back remembered how old Nelson was when a flashlight beam used by an engineer surveying damage to the bridge swung slowly over the crowd.
"Thank you sir, we've got help on the way. I am sure we will be fine."
The bicycle ride back to his balloon was more disturbing than the ride to headquarters. The dead were being packed into cars, and onto the backs of trucks while family members cried and children stared up looking for missing mothers and fathers. Seeing it all made him forget he was supposed to return to headquarters the next day.